


Fais Do-Do

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, M/M, Sexy Dangerous Chase Scenes, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: This is a labour of love, and I hope you love it, xzombiexkittenx! I've taken a lot of influence, unintentionally, from a lot of authors, that I realised as this took shape. So thank you especially to t_pock and bokunojinsei for the beautiful fics you've written that inspired me. Also to theseavoices for helping me come up with the idea in the first place, and sherlocks-freebitch and fragile-teacup for feedback and betaing along the way.Also, liberally sprinkled with literary references of increasing vagueness, bonus points if you spot them all!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xzombiexkittenx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/gifts).



> This is a labour of love, and I hope you love it, xzombiexkittenx! I've taken a lot of influence, unintentionally, from a lot of authors, that I realised as this took shape. So thank you especially to t_pock and bokunojinsei for the beautiful fics you've written that inspired me. Also to theseavoices for helping me come up with the idea in the first place, and sherlocks-freebitch and fragile-teacup for feedback and betaing along the way.
> 
> Also, liberally sprinkled with literary references of increasing vagueness, bonus points if you spot them all!

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”  
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

The wipers were turned up as high as they would go, and still the rain pelted down relentlessly, blurring the lines on the pavement. Will had grown fixated with the constant _squeak-whish squeak-whish_ , echoing through his ears and the chambers of his brain. It helped to focus on something so mundane rather than the tidal wave of panic that clawed for his attention. A mantra, to bring him calm and centre his mind.

Condensation bloomed across the windshield, further obscuring his view, and even the brights on this rusted-out piece of shit weren’t enough to illuminate the winding back country curves of the road. Cursing, Will jabbed his finger at the defrost button and cranked it up all the way, switching from heat to a/c. He shifted his hands on the wheel, bringing first one hand and then the other to his lips, breathing hot across his fingertips to warm them. And then he almost swerved off the fucking road on the next curve, the bright yellow of the reflective signs suddenly blinding as his headlights fell on them.

It was only just after sunset, plenty more travel hours left in the day. Last night he’d gone ‘til two, when he’d stumbled upon a roadside motel. Following the gentle slopes and bends of the scenic route until the forest ended in the abrupt pink neon of the vacancy sign, trailing light like a mirage in the pitch black of the night. Maybe it had given him enough of a head start, but he was loathe to lose what little ground he might have gained by stopping so early tonight.

Keep pushing further and further west, that was the goal, steadfastly ignoring the _and then what_ that punctuated that imperative. Where was far enough? When was he safe again? They were questions that needed answering before long, before the coastline caught up with him and the panic swallowed him whole. The answer that there was no safe any longer.

Out here, in the lonely, desolate stretches well off the beaten path of Interstate 50, it was unlikely anyone was going to find him, anyway. He’d been careful, paying in cash everywhere. The gas stations were little more than stands in the dirt, the motels decades old and badly in need of renovation--no video surveillance, no electronic records, no IDs required, no questions asked. 

After the third time he drove through a puddle deeper than expected and almost spun out, Will pulled into the next service station he saw. The only station he’d seen in the last hour at least. He gave the guy behind the counter a twenty for the only pump out there, which wasn’t even set up to take credit cards.

“The rain is coming down heavier than I expected. Any chance there’s a motel nearby to park it for the night?”

The guy scratched his balding head, looking Will over suspiciously. Will had to remind himself there was no visible sign of his guilt on him, and forced a smile that Alana had, on more than one occasion, called disarming.

“Closest motel I know’d is a good couple hours from here,” the man said. “But I suppose there’s likely to be a free room at that bed and breakfast up in Greely Springs.” He pointed down the road for good measure. “Another ten miles or so up the road, take the 330 and go on down past the old brick school house about fifteen minutes. It’s up on a hill there, can’t miss it--bout the only thing around as far as the eye can see.”

Hardly ideal, but short of sleeping in his car on the side of the road, or ending up crashed in a ditch, Will didn’t have a whole lot of options. And both of those were likely to draw the sort of attention he was trying to avoid, so the bed and breakfast it was.

The directions were easy to follow, the sign at the turnoff for County Road 330 warning of no westbound re-entry. Across a single-lane bridge, with the water rushing just beneath, through a narrow pass of elm trees, breaking on endless fields as far as the light touched. 

Fifteen minutes were more like an eternity. Will shivered not from the cold, but the desolation of the place. He could almost imagine he saw the wispy silver trails of the ghosts pacing his car from the corner of his eye. At last, his headlights fell across the dull red of the school house, half crumbled to the ground beneath the sheltering branches of an ancient oak tree. 

On either side of the narrow lane, dead grass whipped with the force of the wind, and the land gently swelled to a crest, where the house stood, lit up like a beacon. Even with his tenacity and excellent investigative skills, Jack would never stumble upon this place, in a million years.

The sign at the foot of the hill proclaimed the bed and breakfast to be _The Little Bear Inn_. Beneath, there was a carving of Ursa Minor picked out in dots and lines and painted gold. Will turned into the gravel drive, wheels protesting the climb. He needed new tires and the transmission could probably give out on him any minute, but he just needed it to stick with him a few days more.

At the top of the hill, the drive opened up in a wide circle that led to a garage, another, smaller building, and in a loop right up to the front double doors of the house. Three storeys and covered in decorative trim, with a three tiered porch running the entire length of the front of the house. Though it was likely gorgeous in the daylight, in the deep dark of the night with the rain falling heavily, the steeply pitched roof and tall windows like dead eyes staring forlornly into the night, it was something straight out of a Gothic novel.

Will shifted his bag to cover his sidearm in the front seat, just in case someone peeked inside, and made a run for the door. Even in the couple of metres between him and the covered porch, he was already soaked through. His knock betrayed his impatience, ready to be out of the cold, changed into some nice, dry clothes. After the past couple days in the car, near hypnotised by the motion of the road rolling up beneath his tires, standing still was a luxury.

Measured footsteps heralded the arrival of his host before the door swung open to reveal him. Not what Will would have imagined, and he was pretty good at conjuring such images. A man perhaps a few years older than himself, dressed in slacks and a soft brown sweater that probably cost more than Will’s last couple of paychecks combined. A handsome but unremarkable face, smiling in welcome.

“Hello,” he greeted, an accent strong enough to clearly define itself in those two syllables.

Will fidgeted with his glasses, fogging up in the cold. He took them off and wiped them on the hem of his shirt, but, wet as it was, it didn’t help all that much. “Um. I don’t have a reservation or anything, but I was hoping you might have an empty room to ride out the storm.”

The man peered past him, expression pleasantly bland, and then met Will’s eyes through his smeared lenses and smiled. “It is rather biblical out there this evening, is it not?” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Please, come in. You must be freezing.”

The home was lovely, and the man looked harmless enough, and still Will hesitated on the threshold, uncertain. When any choice could lead to disaster, every choice left him frozen with indecision. Before the man could grow suspicious, Will forced himself that last step inside, and watched the door close behind him.

“I’m called Hannibal,” the man said, with a firm shake of his hand. The skin was almost burning hot against Will’s own, frozen through from the wet and cold.

“Will,” he answered, and hoped he could leave it at that.

Hannibal led Will through the dimly lit foyer into a parlour where a fire roared in the hearth. A painting hung above the fireplace, oil applied heavily to canvas, of the night sky. Bold blacks and blues cut through with almost blinding white, the rigid peaks and crevices of paint giving it the appearance of folds in fabric flung carelessly aside. It was strikingly beautiful with an air of loss to it.

“You’ve come at a fortuitous time,” Hannibal said over his shoulder. “In another week or two we’ll be booked solidly with the holiday crowd, but this evening you can have your pick of the place.” 

He went behind the desk to produce a book which he spread out on the desktop and indicated the pictures as he spoke, flipping from page to page. “On the first floor there is the Rigel Suite or the Lodestar Suite, and on the second floor you can choose between the Pleiades, Orion, and Antares--there’s the Polaris as well, but that’s the honeymoon suite.”

“I’m sensing a theme,” Will muttered.

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed for a split second, brow drawn together, before his face smoothed out again. “My sister owns The Little Bear. When she first saw it, lit up in the night, she was reminded of the North Star. Leading her home, she said, and wanted the same for her visitors.”

“‘The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveler,’” Will said, and Hannibal glanced up in surprise. “Well, in this case I’d say it worked. Brought me in out of the rain.”

Hannibal closed the book and gave Will a piercing look. Will forced himself not to squirm under the scrutiny. “If you’re looking for something different, we’ve been renovating the carriage house. Mischa has yet to decorate it, but there’s a bed and sitting area, and the electricity and water are running. I could offer you a discounted rate.”

Will hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious. He’d emptied his bank account before leaving New Orleans, but with no real plan, he was afraid to spend more than the bare minimum. “That sounds great. The rooms look lovely, but I really just need a place to crash for the night.”

Hannibal gathered a couple of papers and took a key from the line of hooks on the wall. “I’ll show you it now.” 

They made their way through another, darkened sitting room and into the kitchen, warm and brightly lit, and cheerfully appointed. A covered pot simmered on the stove top, and a cutting board and knife with vegetables half chopped sat on the island. Hannibal led them out a side door to a covered breezeway.

“It is quite rare for a visitor to happen upon us by chance,” Hannibal said. “Mischa will be pleased. Most travel for the hot springs. Though downtown Greely Springs draws the antiquing crowd as well.” He gestured off towards the north, and Will turned to look.

The rain had stopped, though wind whipped through the nearby treeline and whistled along the eaves, promising more yet to come. In the brief calm, the town, if it even deserved the title, was laid out like a patchwork quilt in the distant valley below. Maybe a dozen businesses along the main strip surrounded by all of six blocks spreading out from the centre of town, barely visible in the moonlight.

“There’s a general store open until eight, if there’s anything you need, about a ten minute drive. Right at the foot of the hill, then take a right at the first light.” Hannibal unlocked the door to the carriage house and flipped on the light, then stepped back for Will to enter.

Clean and a bit utilitarian, but the bed was large and dressed in fresh linens. A dormant fireplace sat across the wall. “Everything’s electric, including the fire--just flip the switch. You can bring your car around to the gravel lot when you have the opportunity, though there’s hardly any rush.” He spared a faint smile.

Will made a turn around in the room. “How much?”

“One hundred, which includes dinner tonight at seven, and breakfast in the morning from seven until nine-thirty.” It was more than Will would be paying at a motel, but not more than he expected, all things considered. This place was pretty nice. Probably would go for easily double once they finished decorating it. 

Hannibal laid the papers on the dresser and tapped his fingers against them. “Just fill these out and bring them when you come in for dinner, just for our records.” With that, he deposited the key in Will’s hand, and pulled the door shut behind him as he left.

After bringing around his car and grabbing his things--gun and badge locked in the glove compartment--Will flipped on the switch for fireplace and began to run the hot water for a shower. There was a drying rack where he hung his wet clothes as he disrobed. 

Will caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the sink. Bags under his eyes, several days of beard growth gone wild, cheeks pale, hair a tumbled mess of curls. Between his appearance, and the state of his car, it was a wonder Hannibal had allowed him in the front door at all, let alone let him stay without paying up front.

He hissed at the first touch of hot water against rain-cold skin, fingers tingling numb under the spray, before he stepped fully under the shower head. Chin dropped to his chest in mingled weariness and pleasure, he just stood there for a good long while, letting the water pelt across his neck and shoulders, and down his back.

With eyes closed, and no distractions, Will’s mind conjured up the images he’d been trying so desperately to avoid. The man lying prone, coughing up his last breath, the knife fallen just a few scant inches from his grasp. Will’s own shaking hand, the clicking sound of the hammer striking, the rattle of the gun dropping to the floor. Blood spattered across the counter halfway up the wall in a graceful arc. Will was covered in it, too much to say what belonged to him, but he was light-headed with disbelief and mounting panic.

So many years working on his control. Denying any violent urge, curbing every dark impulse, the very picture of constraint, gone in an instant. There was self-defense, and then there was excessive force. The stab wound to his shoulder wasn’t enough to justify emptying his sidearm in the guy. 

And Jack would find out about it one way or another. There was no hiding this or covering it up. Will could already hear the sirens of his back up wailing down the street. He had only two options, and the window of opportunity was closing fast.

Will’s finger tightened at his side compulsively, and he could swear he heard the gunshots ringing out again and again, echoing against the tiles in the bathroom. He flung his hand out against the shower wall for balance, breath coming too quick. So much for a nice, relaxing shower. He forced a few deep, centring breaths, straightened up, and reached for the little bottle of complimentary shampoo on the ledge.

Scrubbed perfunctorily clean, and fresh shaved, he dried himself with the opulent towels on the shelf of the linen closet, and dressed in the nicest clothes he’d packed on his mad dash from home. That wasn’t saying much--a pair of his uniform slacks, and a threadbare sweater passed down from his dad, soft heather in colour, that carried the faint scent of Beau Graham even all these years after his passing. Vaguely salty and coppery, with a deep, earthy note that reminded Will of nothing so much as the swamp, though pleasantly so.

There wasn’t anything he could do about the dark circles that shadowed his eyes. Even before the incident his sleep had been anything but regular or restful. He didn’t think there was enough sleep in the world to erase the mark left by years of nightmare fuelled insomnia. But with his scraggly beard gone, and having wrangled his hair into something approaching acceptable, he looked halfway decent. Enough for dinner with his handsome, well-dressed, well-spoken host, at any rate.

Will checked the burner phone he’d bought at a gas station in Arkansas, having ditched his on a bus heading for New York. He wasn’t sure if Jack bought it for even a minute, but he was willing to try for any advantage, and even a short diversion would buy him a head start. There was no service, figured, out in the middle of bum fuck no where, and Hannibal hadn’t mentioned wi-fi. He’d have to ask over dinner. If he was going to be stuck here for precious hours that would have been better served on the road, he could at least try to come up with a plan.

Hannibal was in the kitchen when Will came back into the house. He’d dug out some cash and filled out the form with a bunch of fake info, fingers crossed that Hannibal wouldn’t ask for ID. Just keep distracting him and changing the subject. 

“There is beer in the refrigerator, if you like. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Will fished around on neatly arranged shelves to get to the beer--home brewed, it looked like--and popped the swing top. “Good,” he said, after the first swig. “What’s for dinner?”

“Zharkoye, for my sister. She’s feeling under the weather, and it’s her favourite meal,” Hannibal explained.

Will leaned his elbows on the counter top, peering into the pot simmering on the stove top, fragrant dill and garlic, and other flavours he couldn’t quite pinpoint, and most powerful of all, the savouring scent of roasted meat. Will’s stomach growled. “Not really familiar with it. Russian?”

“Yes, though I’ve made a few modifications to the recipe. Wagyu beef roast, dragon carrots, along with the more traditional parsnips and new potatoes, and red daikon to mellow the stronger flavours.” Hannibal’s face was harder to read than most, but Will could still see the obvious care for his sister in the effort he put forth.

“Smells delicious.” His mouth was already watering. Fuck, he was hungry, and it had snuck up on him. Unbelievable, when now all he could concentrate on was the gnawing sensation in his stomach, that he’d gone the past couple of days on nothing but burnt gas station coffee, jerky, and trail mix. He was _starving_.

Hannibal’s voice seemed to come from far away. “I do hope you’ll enjoy it. Not the standard fare for our guests, but I wasn’t expecting anyone this evening. Of course the refrigerator is fully stocked, I could--”

“No, it’s alright. Beef stew seems pretty appropriate for this weather,” Will said. He didn’t miss the tightening around Hannibal’s eyes and lips, like a grimace, at his meal being reduced to the simplest terms and mentally cursed himself. The last thing he needed was to piss the guy off, after he’d been so accommodating. What if he started asking questions? _Just keep distracting him_. “Hey, I meant to ask about the wi-fi?”

“I’m afraid the storm has knocked it out. Everything is satellite up here, unfortunately. Perhaps it will be back in the morning, if things have cleared up.” Hannibal took the papers and made no comment on them, barely skimming Will’s answers before setting them neatly aside. “We have a library in the front room, or a collection of DVDs to choose from, if you’re bored.”

Will waved him off. “I’ll probably just turn in early tonight.” It was kind of entrancing, watching Hannibal’s movements as he finished off dinner with a sprinkling of fresh parsley over the pot. “Got a lot of driving left to do in the morning.”

“Where are you headed?” Hannibal asked.

It took a minute for the question to register, Will fixated on the way Hannibal’s fingers rubbed nimbly back and forth over the stew, releasing the scent of the herb in the air. He shouldn’t have gone so long without eating. Now it was all he could think about. The hunger was going to drive him to distraction if he wasn’t careful. When he did realise what Hannibal was asking him, Will had to remind himself, _he’s just being friendly. He doesn’t care--probably won’t even remember what you say. How many travellers has he asked that question of?_

Will cast about for a lie that would give him the most headway if Jack ever were to come calling on The Little Bear’s doorstep. “I’m sick of the winter weather. Got a long break for the holidays; I’m heading down to Mexico.”

“Ah. Puerto Vallarta is lovely this time of year,” Hannibal said, and Will hummed noncommittally.

“I don’t have a real destination in mind. Thought I’d just drive down til I hit the border, and find a beach.” Will toyed with the chopping knife idly and cast about for another topic change. “I hope your sister’s not too sick.”

“It’s certainly taken its toll on her,” Hannibal remarked. He took down three bowls from the cabinet and began to ladle the stew into them, casting Will a smile that was disconcerting in its brilliance. “Though I believe she’ll be feeling much better soon. I find that my little home remedies work wonders for her health. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll take her tray to her, and then dinner will be served.”

Will wandered through the downstairs sipping on his beer while Hannibal was gone. His footsteps sounded on the solid wooden steps, up both sets of stairs to the third floor. Must’ve kept it for their own living quarters. Will couldn’t even fathom having to share his home with strangers on a regular basis, all the echoes of lives left trailing through the rooms, never quieting.

The library was deserving of its name, with a high ceiling that took up two storeys and a loft running along the second floor, lined wall to wall with books. Some of them looked worth a fortune--thick and ancient, but all well maintained. Not a speck of dust in the place. Will pulled down a volume at random, some account of Native American mythology, flipping through the pages. Something about the Wendigo, gaining immortality through the consumption of human flesh. Will snorted humourlessly at the idea.

In a house so old even two floors up, voices carried. Will couldn’t hear what they said, precisely. The murmur of Hannibal’s deep baritone, talking about their unexpected guest, and a softer, higher tone in answer, how fortunate that Will had found them. He couldn’t help his curiosity, borne of his time as police officer. He’d been conditioned to pay attention to every detail surrounding him, never knowing when an important piece of information might present itself.

Though with the scent of the stew wafting through the house, Will couldn’t really concentrate on the words on the page, or those being spoken above him. It was almost torturous having to wait, and it seemed like an age before Hannibal descended the stairs again.

They ate at the kitchen table. The darkened dining room was too large and too formal for just the two of them alone. Hannibal placed a dollop of sour cream on top of each bowl and presented Will’s to him with an unmistakable air of pride.

“This is amazing,” Will said after the first bite, humming in pleasure. The roast was incredibly tender, with a lovely brown crust on the outside and a bright, juicy red centre to each morsel. Hannibal had served his bowl with a nice chunk of homemade bread, perfect for sopping up the flavourful broth. “Your guests are very lucky.”

Hannibal paused in the process of unfolding his napkin and actually preened at the praise. Despite himself, Will found it oddly charming. “I’m only around to help out for the holidays,” he said. “This much isolation is not for me. The rest of the year Mischa is on her own up here.”

“Oh?” Will could do small talk. He didn’t like it, but he could fake it, if the situation warranted it. Just take Hannibal’s carefully constructed mask of hospitality and reflect it back at him. “What do you do the rest of the time?” He barely paused in chewing his mouthful to ask. No doubt Hannibal thought him a savage, all but inhaling his stew.

There was that look in Hannibal’s eyes again. As if he knew precisely what Will was doing with his polite questions and deflections. “I’m a doctor--a surgeon--in San Diego.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “A surgeon and a five star chef,” he mumbled.

“It’s a hobby I take great pleasure in,” Hannibal said. “It’s very satisfying, elevating the individual ingredients to a work of art, and far less stressful than the operating room. And you, Will? Your form said you were travelling from Michigan, but I believe I detect a bit of a southern drawl.”

Caught off guard, Will chuckled. “That’s a good ear you have. I’ve moved around a lot since I was a kid, but I guess some things stick with you. I’m a mechanic. Boats, cars, anything with an engine and moving parts.”

“Ah,” Hannibal mused. “Not so different from my work, then. Taking a thing apart with your hands, peering beneath the exterior to diagnose the problem, and repairing it.”

“I guess not.” Will tipped his beer towards Hannibal in _cheers_. “Most probably wouldn’t see it that way. The stakes are a lot higher. If I mess up, I don’t have someone’s blood on my hands.” As soon as the words passed his lips, he regretted them. It was no good playing this persona when the things said only served to remind him of just what he was running from.

Had he betrayed himself in that moment? He felt like his guilt must be written across his face. All his lies laid bare under the truth of what he’d done, and how he’d felt about it. 

“You never quite grow accustomed to the responsibility for lost life. It can be a terrible weight to bear,” Hannibal agreed. “Some buckle under such weight. Coming out here for the holidays helps. Unwinding from the demands of the job. Taking time to put my thoughts in order. It simplifies everything that seems so complicated in my day to day life.”

Hannibal could have been talking for him, the words sounded so familiar.

They finished their meal over agreeable conversation, and Will had another serving of stew. He still wasn’t satisfied, but didn’t know how asking for thirds would go over. When Hannibal poured a glass of scotch for himself and lifted the bottle in questioning to Will, Will was surprised to realise he wouldn’t mind spending more time in his company. They took their glasses with them to the parlour, where two well-worn leather seats were pulled up close to the fireplace.

Will noticed again the artwork hanging above, and the other pieces scattered throughout the home. Half of them the oil works, more raw emotion than anything else, the other half mostly in pencil, full of technical skill--portraits, still-lifes, and architectural pieces--all possessing of a sort of cold perfection. He stood before the painting, considering. “Yours, or your sisters?” 

“Mischa’s,” Hannibal said. “She’s always been the creative one. She says my art lacks soul.” He spoke with a sort of wry humour Will typically saw reserved for siblings that he’d never fully understood, himself.

“It’s very lonely,” Will said, as he studied the darkest swathes untouched by the starlight.

Hannibal came to stand beside him, far closer than was necessary. Leaning near perhaps under the pretext of studying the painting himself, he inhaled deeply. Will couldn’t help the spark in his gut at Hannibal’s proximity. 

“That was the sky as it appeared on the estate of our family home. We would lie in the garden, beneath the fountain, and look up at them at night, with no other light to be seen for miles, and it was as if she were plotting a path to a different life.” He took a seat before the fire, sipped from his scotch, casting Will an amused, sidelong look.

Will joined him, sinking into the plush leather. “And what did you see, gazing upon them?” As he spoke the words, Will was aware of the fact that they weren’t his own. It was Hannibal’s measured tone, his interest in picking apart the motivations and longings of another. A desire to understand the things Will often understood implicitly. Hannibal looked mildly taken aback, as if aware of this, and unaccustomed to it all at once.

People rarely picked up on his mirroring. The way his accent would fade or deepen depending on the company he kept, the dialectical and vocabulary shifts that he slipped into to put others at ease. It worked a charm in questioning and interrogating, and even his lieutenant, who knew what he was doing, never seemed to realise when Will pulled it on him. Still, when someone did notice, they always reacted negatively; whether they thought they were being played, or that Will was mocking him, it never went over well.

In the arch of his brow and the purse of his lips, chin propped in hand, Hannibal’s intrigue was written across his face. “The stories we tell about the sky have always been just that, stories. I’m more interested in what they have to say about the humans who have told them, century after century, passing them down. All looking to the sky for different answers. Mischa, longing for escape, others for love, or morality, or guidance.”

The unspoken _what story do you tell yourself_ hung on the air between them. Will stared at the empty bottom of his tumbler, and Hannibal reached across the arm of the chair to fill it again with the rich tawny liquid. Will gratefully took a deep swallow.

Silence fell between them, and though it should not have been, with this perfect stranger, it was comfortable. The scotch was high quality, a warm, vanilla and smoke nose. Sweet raisin and oak on the tongue, followed by a powerful burst of peat on the finish, burning delightfully all the way down. Will couldn’t afford this kind of splurge, even when he strayed from bottom shelf liquor. What a strange, yet welcome respite this evening was, in the midst of his desperate cross-country dash. To sit in companionable silence and savour a fine scotch by the warmth of the fire.

“Strange, to think that we’re drinking something made over forty years ago,” he commented at length. “That a group of people in the 80s distilled this very blend, and somehow it’s managed to survive this entire time. Through shifts in ownership, recessions and cutbacks, perhaps even the deaths of its makers, it made its way into this bottle. Four decades of waiting to be enjoyed for a few brief moments.”

Hannibal drew a breath, holding it for a pregnant moment, and Will cursed himself for being so maudlin. He waited for Hannibal’s response, and when it was clear none was forthcoming, he rubbed a hand over his face and said, “Sorry. I’m just tired. I should have gone to bed ages ago.”

“No,” Hannibal said, his expression distant. “You just remind me of someone I know.” He blinked, and smiled in Will’s direction. “But please, don’t let me keep you, if you need your sleep.”

Will dragged a hand over his face. He was exhausted, but sleep was never a certain thing for him, and these days he knew what he’d see as soon as he rested his head upon the pillow and closed his eyes. He rolled out the tension from his shoulders, melting as the heat and liquor spread throughout his body.

“Or,” Hannibal said, leaning over with the bottle again. “You could have another drink.”

Generous host, Hannibal was. Will couldn’t quite say how much of it was genuine, and how much was Hannibal covering for his own personality deficiencies. “I can’t say no.”

“Then don’t,” Hannibal said, and Will laughed, and extended his tumbler for Hannibal to pour more. “Perhaps you’ll sleep better with a nightcap. A relaxing, dreamless sleep.”

It was Will’s turn to be stunned speechless. Sure, it was hardly an impressive deduction that he hadn’t been sleeping well, given Will’s bloodshot and black-ringed eyes. But the comment about his dreams...How much had he given away over the course of their conversation? He chuckled ruefully. “Is it that obvious?”

No. A good deal of Will’s insight this evening was not his own, borrowed from this strange man. Any more time spent in his company was dangerous. An opportunity for Hannibal to see through the facade that was already crumbling under pressure. Yet he remained, rooted to the spot, wondering where this would lead them.

“I am all too familiar with the habit of avoiding the invasive thoughts that creep upon us in the early hours of morning. I’ve grown accustomed to surviving on as little sleep as necessary--one relic of medical school I’m happy to cling to.”

Will bit his lip and weighed the potential for damage, then said fuck it to caution and said, “I’m not so sure I’d call what I’m doing _surviving_.”

Hannibal shifted in his seat with a squeak of leather, head cocked to the side. “Of course, when nightmares begin to interfere with one’s ability to function on a daily basis, it might be time to consider the root problem. What is it your subconscious is trying to tell you, Will? What is it you’re avoiding?”

Will had been careful not to look at him straight-on much, his own survival mechanism of avoiding eye contact as much as possible, sure, but looking at Hannibal made it impossible to ignore how good-looking the man was. Especially now, skin flushed from the fireplace or the scotch, pupils swallowing up the strange amber-brown of his eyes, shadows slanting across his brow and the sharp cut of his cheekbones. 

Was it a trick of the flickering firelight, the fluttering of Hannibal’s pulse visible in the fine hollow of his throat, working around a swallow of scotch? If he closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, Will could almost hear the rush of blood in his veins, could smell Hannibal over the briney scotch and the lingering fragrance of the stew. The astringent sterile clean of the hospital clinging to him, and beneath that a musk sweetness that was pure masculinity.

A smile more like a grimace twisted his lips before Will managed to wrangle his expression under his control. _Get a fucking hold of yourself, Graham. Keep it together. You don’t need that._ Just see it through the night and he’d be gone first thing in the morning, and it would just be a shared moment between two strangers, as simple as that. It didn’t need to become anything more complicated. He threw back the rest of his scotch in one swallow, fighting the pang of shame for wasting something so precious. 

“Time for me to go tackle my subconscious head on.” He stood, unsteady on his feet and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Thanks for the scotch, and the dinner. And the company.”

Hannibal nodded his head, the very picture of magnanimity. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Will. Most important meal of the day.”

Will waved in vague agreement, aware of Hannibal’s eyes on his back as he made his way from the room.

 

A fog had crept in overnight and settled itself around the hill, completely obscuring the forest, not to mention the valley below. Will’s feet were encased in stone, dragging along the floor on his way to the shower. He pissed in the dark, one hand braced on the wall, working his way through a jaw-cracking yawn. It didn’t help. Eyes gummed up with sleep no matter how many times he blinked and rubbed it away.

He blindly fumbled with the shower and cranked it all the way as hot as it went, hand under the spray as it went from frigid to blistering. When he drew back his hand, it was a bright, visceral red. Slick, warm blood ran in thick rivulets down his forearms and dripped from his elbows to stain the pristine white tiles beneath his feet.

Something was prickling under his skin, up his back and the base of his scalp. With a scream clawing at the back of his throat, Will reached up and brushed his fingertips along the top notch of his spine. To his horror, there was something there, just beneath the surface. He dug in with the tips of his nails and it gave so easily, splitting like overripe fruit.

That was him, beneath. The monster that had been growing within for years, silently waiting for Will to break. When he’d pulled that trigger, the first, fine crack had began to spider across the exterior, and now it splintered and fell away. Strip after strip discarded in a mess of sinew and veins, painting the room in grisly shades of pink and red.

The body was on the floor again, knife just out of reach. No longer a threat now that he was full of a clip worth of bullets, that’s what his partner would say, standing by his hospital bedside. A good shooting, that’s what the lieutenant would say, clapping him gently on his good shoulder. Most cops never have to use their guns--it’s not something you get used to overnight, that’s what the psychiatrist at the precinct would say. In the days and weeks that would follow, all the reassurances that the danger was passed.

But how could they understand, the damage was already done? He was past the point of no return.

A voice, hauntingly familiar, and yet impossible to place telling him _See? This is why I left. How could I have ever loved something like you?_

Shuddering, Will looked up at his reflection, and _saw_. Soulless black eyes and a huge, gaping maw of razor sharp teeth on an otherwise featureless face. Knobby growths reminiscent of antlers where he’d used to have hair, down his neck and over his shoulders, tipped in thorns. The exposed jumble of organs, stained in a tar black that dripped down to mingle with the blood at his feet, now cloven hooves.

“There was never any going back for you,” Jack said, right in his ear, clear as day, and Will was instantly awake.

But there was no one there with him, in the dark of the carriage house. The only sound was the wind screaming down the eaves and the rain falling uneven on the rooftop. Will’s heart raced in his chest, and fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp. The sheets were soaked through, and for a panicky moment between sleep and wakefulness, the darker fabric looked black as blood in the thready patch of moonlight streaming in. 

Then he finally found the switch, and yellow light spilled over the room. It was just sweat, and Jack wasn’t here. Just to be sure, Will got to shaky feet and went to the window. Only his car was parked in the lot, and the night was empty, entirely void of life.

“Fuck.” A glance at the digital clock told him it was just past four in the morning, and the sour acid pit in his stomach told him he wasn’t getting back to sleep. 

He eyeballed the shower, weighing the need to rinse himself clean against the lingering images from his nightmare, and eventually settled for stripping down, running a damp cloth over himself, and changing into fresh clothes. He hung the sweaty ones up next to the clothes from yesterday. Sometime soon he was going to have to find a laundromat, or buy some new.

The main house was eerily still. A grandfather clock ticked from somewhere on the first floor, echoing through the halls. Probably Hannibal or Mischa wouldn’t be disturbed by him, what with being on the top floor. Still Will found himself tiptoeing from room to room, freezing every time the floorboards creaked.

In the library, he left off the overhead light and turned on a lamp on the end table. The small circle of light cast everything in the room in warm browns and golds. Will passed by the collection of movies and saw the book he’d been reading earlier, still open to the page about cannibalism. 

With a shudder, Will flipped it closed and shoved it back on the shelf. Instead, he browsed the rows of books until he found some Vonnegut, thin enough he could probably finish it in a couple hours, and pulled it down.

It would be smarter to just go now. Shove everything in his bag, leave the key on the counter and get a good start. But it was still black as pitch outside with a smattering of rain here and there. His eyes ached from lack of sleep, and honestly? He wanted to eat Hannibal’s breakfast before he left, share a cup of coffee and maybe a little more conversation to carry him through the hours ahead on the road.

So Will took the book to the wing-back chair and settled down to read. For some time, the narrative did a decent job of distracting him. There was something comforting about the post-apocalyptic setting. The idea of evolution cleaning up after itself where humankind was concerned.

Sometime after the sky had begun the shift from navy blue to a deep cobalt shot through with pink light, Will heard the first stirrings of life from above. Footsteps, and then running water. The house creaked and swelled with the wind and the movements of its inhabitants, almost like a living thing. Pipes running with water like veins carrying blood to the vital systems. 

Though of course he had no way of knowing whether it was Mischa or Hannibal, Will couldn’t help but imagine the latter, going through his morning routine. Brushing his teeth, letting the water in the shower run warm while he picked out his clothing for the day. Or no, that wasn’t quite right. Hannibal struck him as the sort to already know what he planned on wearing before he ever went to bed the night before. For some reason, the thought brought a smile to Will’s lips.

It was fully sunrise by the time the shower had stopped running and a door opened above. Will had maybe fifteen pages left of his book, but he set it aside now in anticipation. Hannibal’s voice rumbled in greeting, returned by Mischa’s own voice. Will could hear her better this morning--were they standing at the landing of the stairs? Deep for a woman’s, likely from her illness, and with the same thick accent as her brother. 

The sound of his own name being spoken piqued Will’s interest. A familiar sensation tingled at the nape of his neck, like he got when he was on the beat or questioning a witness and he just _knew_ they were guilty of something. He got up from the chair as fluidly as he could, creeping towards the foyer.

“...is perfect,” Mischa was saying. “...wish you would just take care of it already.”

Hannibal’s murmur was softer, more difficult to distinguish the words. Will put a hesitant foot on the first step, and then the next, straining his ears. “...clearly fabricated...someone comes looking for him?”

Will almost missed the third step, heart thudding in his chest at the sudden rush of adrenaline. He turned back, just as careful descending the steps so as not to make a sound. “Give me a little more time,” Hannibal said, more clearly. He was coming down the stairs now. 

Will dashed back into the library and flicked off the light, then made his way back through the rooms leading into the kitchen. He’d reached the back door when he heard Hannibal coming down the hall and made himself slow, sweaty hands pressed against the grain of his jeans. He turned, as if he’d just come in from the outside, and caught Hannibal’s surprised expression when he came into the room.

“Will,” he greeted. “You’re early.” He glanced at the clock to confirm for himself that it was only just past six-thirty. “Would you care for a cup of coffee while I start on breakfast?”

“Actually…” Will swallowed the lump in his throat. “I should probably hit the road. I was just coming in to drop off the key.”

“Oh.” Hannibal’s disappointment looked genuine. “Allow me to make you a cup to go then?”

Will wavered when he met Hannibal’s gaze. “I’ve really got to go. I lost a lot of time stopping early last night.”

Hannibal nodded his understanding. “Of course. Be safe, Will. Enjoy Mexico.”

Will half expected Hannibal to try to stop him on the way out the door, but he just stood watching as Will left. He shoved his clothes back in the bag to sort out later, phone in his pocket, and grabbed his car keys from the nightstand. No one was waiting for him outside, either, though he was disconcerted to notice a fog rolling in thick from the treeline. The air was thick with damp, the ground sopping wet beneath his shoes, squelching with each step.

Shivering, Will hurried for his car. He tossed his bag into the passenger seat as he climbed in and jabbed the key in the ignition. It sputtered to life, and he pressed down on the clutch and shifted into reverse.

Or at least, he tried to. Will could hear the gears grinding in complaint as the transmission slipped, then stalled. “No, come on, _fuck_.” Will gritted his teeth, jerking the gear shift around in neutral and trying again. “ _Come on_.” Fucking fine. If it wasn’t going to reverse, there was enough room for him to pull around in the gravel. He shifted into first and the RPMs revved up to three before the whole car shuddered and fell dead.

Several tries later, it became clear he wasn’t going anyway. When he looked up from banging his hands on the wheel, Hannibal was watching from the window of the side door, and he had the audacity to look concerned.

Will swallowed down his rage. It was dangerous, and entirely useless to him right now. He forced himself to draw deep, even breaths. The transmission had been slipping on him the past few days, and if he’d had a moment to stop, he would have already taken care of it. Beau Graham would have tanned his hide for letting it go on this long. What the hell was he expecting? 

Surely he couldn’t blame it on Hannibal. He didn’t even know what he’d heard. They could have been talking about anything. 

_Yeah, Hannibal could have seen right through your shitty cover story._  
  
Fuck. 

_You’re being paranoid. It’s not like your face is on the 5 o’clock news. What’s he going to find out about you? That you were a cop? So what?_

There was a heavy, metallic scent when Will stuck his head under the hood. He’d known, even before he’d looked. He’d known since he’d first felt the resistance in the shifting gears, _of course_ right when he was riding through the steep mountain passes in northern Arkansas. There was a leak in the transmission somewhere, and he needed to replace a hose. It would still only be a temporary fix at this point. The tranny was on its last legs, but it should carry him through to his destination.

When he came in the side door and paused to scrape his muddy shoes on the mat, Hannibal presented him with a mug of coffee. It smelled heavenly, and Will was frozen through. He drank more quickly than he should have. “Thanks.”

“Car troubles?” Will really had no way to say for certain whether Hannibal had anything at all to do with helping along the inevitable end of his transmission. With anyone else, the guilt would have been plain to see on their face, but Hannibal was a closed book. The lift of his brows and widening of his eyes could just as easily have been humour as commiseration.

“I don’t suppose there’s an Auto Zone in downtown Greely Springs?”

“I believe Cecily and Matt’s garage might be able to assist you. I can drive you down after breakfast?”

Hannibal made them omelettes, though as with the previous evening, he’d elevated the dish to a piece of culinary art. Herbed cheese, green onions, liver, and a strange, dark mushroom with a nutty, meaty flavour, and the fluffiest egg he’d ever been served, along with a homemade salsa, all presented like it belonged in some fancy restaurant. It seemed like Hannibal would be wasted as a surgeon when he could cook like this, meals that sought to reach the old, bone-deep hunger.

Their drive into town was silent and tense, far from the easy silence of the previous evening. Hannibal’s Bentley was clean and warm, with that new car smell still hanging about it though the year was a few past. Will couldn’t get comfortable in the heated leather seats, still turning over in his head the likelihood that Hannibal was responsible for his car, and the ensuing guilt at thinking poorly of his host. Surely if Hannibal meant him any harm, he wouldn’t be feeding him and chauffeuring him around town.

Fog dipped and drifted through the valley in patches. It gave the appearance of water with small isolated islands rising up from the white as they passed. The headlights reflected back, effectively cocooning them in their own little cloud. Will could almost imagine himself as the protagonist in some ghost story, living alongside, but outside of time with the people of the town who were just beginning to stir and go about their daily business.

They passed three different antique stores, a bookstore, a thrift store, and a handful of locally owned restaurants, then the general store Hannibal had mentioned, and a bar at the end of the appropriately named Main Street. Beyond that, all that remained were the residential streets. A furrow wrinkled his brow.

“Do they even have a doctor in this place?”

“There is a man in the next village over who makes house calls still, if you can believe it.” Hannibal gave him an amused look, as if they were sharing a joke.

“Is he the one tending to your sister?” Will asked. He shifted to lean against the window, attention focussed on Hannibal. “I never asked what was wrong with her.”

Hannibal paused. Was that hurt in the twitch of his lip and the tic in his temple? “Mischa’s illness is chronic. Most of the time manageable, though it tends to grow worse around this time of year. The change in the weather. It takes a toll on her body.”

“I’m sorry,” Will muttered, fiddling awkwardly with the door lock. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

“It’s the reality we have lived our entire lives.” Hannibal’s hands tightened on the wheel and he rolled his shoulders, as if casting off a weight. “She was diagnosed when she was four. I was ten. In many ways I felt responsible for her, after our parents died. Even after we went to live with our aunt and uncle, I was the one who saw to her needs. Perhaps it is why I turned to medicine.”

“That’s a lot for a kid.”

Hannibal lifted a brow. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“My father wasn’t...a _well_ man,” Will managed. There was that old familiar ache for his father’s presence, the guilt and sadness and bitter blame that was inescapable no matter how much love there was between them. “He struggled with addiction for as long as I could remember, and I tried to help him. My mother wasn’t around, it was just the two of us, and I didn’t--in the end, it got the better of him.”

“The sins of our parents are still visited upon us long after they have departed.”

Will snorted, and turned to lean his cheek against the cool glass. It was easier than looking at Hannibal, whose expression seemed to say he knew Will all too well despite their brief time together. Even if he’d misunderstood what he’d overheard this morning, it wasn’t like the two of them could be _friends_.

The garage was just outside the far end of town, where the fenced in, quarter acre plots gave way to great expanses of wind-blown land. It was just a house with an attached barn that had been converted for their purposes. Hannibal was distracted by Cecily’s questions about Mischa while Matt led Will along the shelves in the back on the barn.

“We don’t keep a lot of parts on hand, mostly it’s all special order,” he was saying, “but if there’s something here you can use, feel free.”

There was a pan gasket he could make work, maybe. A little big but he’d shave off the plastic and put some sealer. He grabbed some universal hosing and transmission fluid too. The guy sold it at a good price; it didn’t quite feel right taking it for so little, but Will was already burning through his reserve. 

He spent the rest of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon up to his elbows in the car. If he could just get the gears to shift, it would be enough for now. Get back on the main route and to a real city where he could buy the parts he needed. Or, fuck, just leave the heap somewhere and get a rental. It might cost him less and he only needed it another day or two.

_And then what?_

Will gritted his teeth and got to work. Along with the transmission problems, there was a lot of corrosion on the battery connections, and as many miles as he’d put on the thing, an oil change wouldn’t go amiss. His trunk was full of most of what he’d need to tend to that, so he jacked up the car and dove in. Scrubbed it down the battery with a wire brush and scrounged around in the well-stocked fridge for some Coke to pour on it. Went ahead and topped off his oil and coolant while the transmission fluid was draining. Even after he’d flushed it all out and attached the new pan, the gear still wasn’t engaging.

“You were going to let him just drive away.”

Will jerked his head up at the voice, carried to him on the wind. There was no one around as far as he could see. That damn fog still drifted over the ground. It caught around Will’s ankles when he moved, clinging like grasping hands, stirring and swirling in patterns he could almost make out. He wasn’t entirely certain he was even awake.

“And fate intervened.” That was Hannibal’s voice. Will scanned the forest line and back at the house. He crept towards the porch, walking in the frosted over garden to avoid being seen from the windows that lined the front of the house. A window was open on the third floor, and Will could see a figure shadowed in the lace curtains.

Mischa’s voice rose and fell unevenly in pitch and volume. “...advantage of the opportunity?” There was a long pause, and then she said, “You like him?” It was a strange inflection--not teasing or accusatory, but profoundly bewildered, as if the very idea of Hannibal liking anyone was ludicrous.

“He is intriguing.” It was amazing, the world of meaning conveyed in those three simple words. They shivered down Will’s spine.

Silence fell. The shadow moved away from the window. “You should be resting,” Hannibal said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I know.” Mischa’s voice was meek and frail. Regretful. “You always do, Hannibal. I wish--”

Whatever she was going to say was cut off abruptly. Will pressed himself back against the wall, and strained his ears, but Hannibal’s murmured response was too quiet.

Maybe he was misreading everything they were saying. He was aware of the fact that he was prone to paranoia, _thanks dad_ , but he couldn’t just sit around here waiting to find out he’d been right all along. Because he’d also learned to trust his instincts when his heart began to race from a perceived threat. He’d just put the car in neutral, push it down the goddamn hill, and coast into town. He could take his chances there.

Will grabbed his gun from the glove box and tucked it in the waistband of his jeans. It helped calm his nerves as he replaced the cap and lowered the car down from the jack, double-checked all the hoses and slammed the hood shut.

Back in the carriage house, he started up the shower, covered in engine grease, sweat, and transmission fluid. The sky was a bleary grey already, and in another couple hours night would settle. He stripped down quickly and ignored the press of last night’s dream against his skin. Will swatted irritatedly at the itch at the nape of his neck at the image of the thorn-tipped growths and grabbed for the soap, got a good lather going on. 

Just needed to scrape off the grime and look halfway presentable. Matt had been sympathetic to his plight. Maybe he could help somehow. Give Will a drive to the nearest town with a rental car.

So caught up in his thoughts, Will almost didn’t hear the click of the lock turning on the door until the bolt scraped against the strike plate. He froze, ears pricking, uncertain of just what he had heard. And then the faintest whine of the hinge as the door opened, soft feet on the carpet. 

His limbs all unstuck at once, moving almost without thought or permission. Will gingerly lifted the shower curtain just enough to slip free, but not to shift the metal hooks against the rod. He bit his lip against a curse at the realisation that his clothing was still in the other room, along with his car keys. 

Someone--who was he kidding, he _knew_ who it was. Who it had to be. Hannibal had a light step, with all the grace of a dancer, but Will felt each like a hammer striking the inside of his ribcage. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dried himself off as quickly as he dared while remaining entirely silent. The towel was long enough to knot around his waist, twice for good measure, the end falling around his mid-thigh and split up to his groin.

The bathroom door would be trickier to open. Would Hannibal risk picking the lock and potentially be heard by the occupant. Will imagined those sure, careful hands he’d watched in the kitchen, only now in his mind’s eye they were handling a bloody, human heart with that same skill. Trimming away the ventricles and the fat. He could pick it, but he wouldn’t. Hannibal was not one to leave anything up to chance. 

He’d break in the door and catch Will off guard. If Will tried to fight he’d end up tangled in the shower curtain, and it would only make it that much easier for Hannibal to get a solid grip on him. Arm around his chest and under his chin, knife across the throat in one easy pass.

Will went out the window; it was the only option. He didn’t even try to be silent anymore, just got a leg over the sill and propelled himself the rest of the way. Even knowing how frigid it was outside, it was still shocking. Ground wet and hard beneath his feet, the chill of the day winding through his hair, still dripping from the tips, leaving searing cold paths on his skin. He didn’t have a second to pause to catch his breath, just ran full tilt around the side of the carriage house for the gravel lot. 

There was a spare key behind the back driver side wheel. Showing up naked in town was going to be a lot harder to explain. He was going to have to lift a car, which, if Jack wasn’t already in hot pursuit, would put Will back on his radar, but what choice did he have? He scrambled on the gravel--at least his feet were numb to the pain--and came up a few feet short when he saw his car, now sitting on four flat tires.

 _Oh now_ , there was Jack’s voice again, laden with dark humour. _I wouldn’t say you don’t have any choice._

A growl rumbled in Will’s chest, something wild and uncontrollable. It burned against bone and gristle, like it would burst through his skin to be free. _This is kill or be killed_. 

It was a part of Will he cared to listen to even less than Jack, if possible. His own voice, a low, coaxing hum. 

_It’s different, like that man you shot. Some people don’t deserve to live. And we_ liked _it, didn’t we._

“No,” Will shouted, hands to his ears. He turned on the spot, eyes seeking desperately for any alternative.

Hannibal stood in the open doorframe of the carriage house, maybe twenty feet away and only the car between them, regarding Will with an intense, naked interest at odds with his intended goal. 

How long they stood there, Will couldn’t say. His whole lower half felt frozen, from the numb stumps at the end of his ankles, up his knees and into his thighs. Hannibal’s hand shifted on the knife he held, and Will broke first, sprinting for the treeline. 

He thought for sure it would be over in a second, that Hannibal would tackle him around the waist and take him down. But Will’s feet carried him forward with a speed he hadn’t known he’d possessed, past the slippery patch of browned grass and the line of brush at the edge of the woods. 

And then, all that numbness gave way to hot blood pulsing through him. Shock gave way to adrenaline. He barely registered the prickle of holly leaves, or the spines of the blackthorn leaving angry red trails on his shins, the rocks shredding the soles of his feet. The scrape of splintered bark when he caught his hip on an ash tree, or the stiff needles of the blue spruce tearing at his cheeks. 

All he really felt was the pumping of his heart. The cadence was all wrong, an out of time drumbeat that echoed in his ears and all around the woods. Will imagined it splitting open and spilling all that tar black pitch from the cavity.

_no no no no no_

It was his new mantra, in time to the sound of his feet hitting the ground, over and over.

There was no where to go. No path to speak of. Will had no knowledge of these woods or where, if anywhere, they headed. Hannibal had all the advantages. Lay of the land, weapon in hand, appropriately attired.

 _Kill or be killed, kid_. That was Beau, sad and matter-of-fact. Will could see the exact shape of the line between his brows, the luminescence of his eyes, as clear as if his father was with him now. It took him back to when he was twelve years old, sitting on his bed with Beau’s hand awkwardly patting his back, telling him someday he’d understand. 

Someday the writhing, feverish, conflicted mess inside him would settle, and it would all be clear. 

When Will finally came to terms with who he was. 

What he was.

 _You_ did _like it. That man got what he deserved. How many times did you have the opportunity to rid the world of some useless piece of scum--some rapist or child abuser or some asshole who killed his wife? You were fighting against something that you knew, deep down, was right._

Will fell to his knees, panting, a wave of hot nausea creeping up his throat. The acrid tang on the back of his tongue and dread falling like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He clutched his belly against the pang of hunger, skin raised in vivid red wheals on skin gone marble white from the cold. Rolling and pinching it roughly between his ragged nails, he could make a different hurt, a worse one, and make himself forget the craving. 

Hannibal slowed as he approached. “I had wished to avoid this,” he said.

They were growing pains; radiating down his ulna and radius, in each joint of each finger. Bones grinding together and shifting under his skin through his skull. Will shook his head and dug his nails into his belly. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he bit out.

Hannibal was like a bird, head angled to the side in curiosity. All barely contained violence ready to spring free in an instant. “Why not?” he asked. Lips quirking in amusement. He couldn’t even countenance it, that Will might prove a threat to him.

Snarling, Will leapt at him. One long, fluid movement that carried him over the few feet that separated them and knocked the blade from Hannibal’s hand. Lost somewhere in the undergrowth. Will didn’t need it. Hand around Hannibal’s throat, he let the momentum carry them until Hannibal’s back came up hard against a tree trunk.

“I don’t _want_ to hurt anyone,” he said.

Hannibal made a wet, gasping sound that Will finally placed as laughter. He brought his hand up to Will’s, but didn’t attempt to dislodge him. “A little more conviction, please,” he choked out. There was no fight in him at all, just eyes twinkling with mirth. He could have thrown Will off by now. Hannibal was larger and solidly muscled, hardly the body of a surgeon. Will was piecing it all together on the fly, but this wasn’t the first time Hannibal had hunted someone through these woods.

Will released him as if burnt. He stumbled back. “I--” Hannibal’s neck was already turning purple from the force of Will’s grip. Had he even been holding that tightly? His eyes traced the shape of each of his individual fingers on the pale expanse of skin exposed by Hannibal’s open collar and his gut lurched. It would be a lie if he said there was nothing pleasant about the sensation this time. “I don’t,” he faltered.

Hannibal’s hands pressed back against the tree bark and the arch of his body was perversely inviting. Baring his throat like Will could rip it out and Hannibal wasn’t entirely opposed to such a proposition. He breathed in through his nose, catching Will’s scent copper heavy on the wind. “You are a _fascinating_ creature,” he said. 

And then he straightened, a thrilling blend of eroticism and menace in his posture. “I’d like very much to crack you open.” He stepped forward and Will countered and they stood there, breath clouding between them.

When Hannibal lunged, Will dodged and caught him in the back with a blow that sent him sprawling across the ground. Not much of a head start, but Will could make his way back towards the house. All he needed was to find Hannibal’s car keys. His mind helpfully supplied an image of the desk in the parlour with the row of keys on the wall. It was a clear goal he could focus on, to distract him from the spasms rippling through his muscles.

Within seconds, Hannibal was up, his footfalls fast on Will’s heels, crunching on the detritus of fallen leaf and branch. Though it hadn’t felt like any time had passed at all, it was full twilight when Will broke free of the forest and spilled into the yard. There was no sun or moon in the pervasive gloom, just a faint trail of light descending towards an invisible horizon.

Will hobbled across the breezeway and through the door, pausing to turn and lock it behind him. That was hardly going to slow Hannibal, but it was a sturdy door. A few seconds more were all Will needed. The hardwood flooring was slippery and when Will skidded hard into the island and glanced behind, it was to see his own blood trailing on the floor. The pain in his gut flared insistently and Will pushed it down as he propelled himself off the counter in the direction of the parlour.

The keys were lined up and neatly labelled. Two each for the guest rooms, plus the doors to the house, the cellar, and the shed, but none for either of the vehicles parked in the garage.

“Shit.” 

The latch to the front door clicked. Fat fucking lot of good it did, locking one door and leaving the other open. Will retraced his steps, silent now, holding his breath though his lungs ached with the effort. He could feel Hannibal’s presence in the house like a tangible thing brushing up against him. It filled up all the empty spaces. As if his eyes were everywhere, watching Will’s every movement, his fingers reaching from every dark corner to trace ice down Will’s spine.

Will cursed again, under his breath. He was rapidly running out of options.

 _Not true_ sing-songed the voice in his head. Will savagely silenced it, even as his fingers itched for the feel of metal in his grip.

Mischa. _That_ was what he had. Will didn’t have to hurt anyone; all he needed was to get Mischa between them and that would slow Hannibal down long enough for him to find a way out of this that didn’t require bloodshed.

Hannibal had shed his shoes. Will could barely hear the tread of his sock-shod feet gliding behind the trail of blood Will had left behind. Tracing circles through the house like a child’s game of hide and seek. Will ran on his toes through the kitchen and dining room and library to the foyer and made a break for the stairs.

Somewhere in the distance tires on gravel broke through the otherwise silent night. Will took the stairs two at a time, using his grip on the bannister to lever himself up faster. By the time he rounded the landing, he caught sight of Hannibal in the foyer below, eyes narrowed. He moved after Will with a purposeful, unhurried stride that spoke of the inevitability of what would follow.

Climbing the second set of stairs seemed to take a million years, and just as he reached the third floor, the doorbell rang. 

They both froze. 

Will cast his gaze between the bars of the banister and the narrow section of flooring to where Hannibal stood motionless halfway up the first flight of stairs staring back. It was as though he were staring into a mirror; Hannibal was less a man than a monster wearing the skin of one, shedding it along with the affectations of humanity in the course of his pursuit.

Will was so used to avoiding others’ eyes for fear of what he might read in them. Never before had he been afraid of what someone else might see in his. More afraid than the promise of a violent and bloody death at the end of Hannibal’s knife.

The bell rang again, followed by an insistent knock and a muffled voice calling out, “Hello? Anybody home?”  
Hannibal nodded once at Will, a clear _I’ll get to you in a minute,_ and turned back to descend the stairs.

Will spared a moment’s regret for the person at the door. He wondered if he could warn them of the situation they’d just unwittingly stumbled upon. In his mind’s eye, he saw the result of any attempt on his part to use this interruption to his advantage. The savage force Hannibal would exert, the crack and splinter of bone driving into brain. 

There was a light on under the first door on the landing and Will made for it. Slow, careful steps so as not to alert Mischa, if she weren’t already aware. He laid his hand on the knob and pulled the door close in the frame oh-so-gently as he began to turn, holding the latch as he pushed inside.

Mischa sat in a rocking chair by the window. From the angle, Will could see a fall of silky butterscotch hair down her back, and a slight frame swallowed up in an old-fashioned nightgown.

“Mister Lecter?”

Oh. Will would have known that voice anywhere. He whipped around so fast it strained something in his neck. _Fuck_ , the pain in his stomach was going to tear him apart. Jack looking him up at the precinct, just days after the funeral. All eyes were on them, filled with curiosity. _Mister Graham. I knew your father._ The warning and the promise of Jack’s watchful eyes on him, every move he made thereafter. 

Hannibal’s voice brought him back to the present. Dishevelled though he was from their chase, he sounded absurdly composed. “Welcome to _The Little Bear_. Can I help you?”

“Jack Crawford, I’m with the FBI.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

Jack chuckled and just like that, Will’s vision went hazy around the edges and he was back in his rundown apartment in the Lower Ninth. Mildew at the baseboard and mushrooms growing between the tiles in the bathroom, living off canned food, bad coffee, and worse whiskey. Holed up after the shooting. His wound had long closed--faster than expected. Faster than the doctors could explain. 

But regardless of whether he was ever able to lift a gun again, regardless of what was decided about him going back on active duty, his career was over. Will knew the next time he had the chance, he wasn’t going to be able to resist.

And there was Jack, on his front stoop again, smile aimed to charm and disarm, even with the shape of the gun holstered under his jacket visible when he moved. Asking after Will’s health when they both knew what he was really after.

The first taste was all that mattered. How it happened, Will’s intentions, what followed, didn’t make one good goddamn of a difference.

He’d acted on instinct. Same as in the woods, something inside him surging with breathless longing. It warred with the part of him that had resisted twenty-five years, shouting at him: _prove him wrong prove them wrong you’re not that thing_ even as he’d landed the first blow to Jack’s jaw. 

In the end, he’d barely managed to pull himself off. Lying there on Will’s kitchen floor, Jack’s face was nothing more than a mass of broken bones and bruises. Blood spilled from his nose and mouth and the split on his cheek. He’d moaned weakly, pulling at Will’s shirt as he stood on shaky legs. Still reaching for the weapon at his waist.

Kill or be killed.

And Will had run, because he _couldn’t_.

A movement from the corner of Will’s eye caught his attention. His focus shifted from the open door and the conversation below, to the mirror above the dresser, which afforded him an unobscured view of the rocking chair.

Mischa was deathly pale, eyes sunken in the sockets, lips split and cracked, red against the shocking white of her skin. She looked as though a strong wind would shatter her into dust. In her right hand she held a gun levelled right at his chest.

“Hannibal didn’t want to kill you,” she said in her gravelly, gasping voice. Her eyes took him in, head to toe covered in blood and bruises and lingering engine oil. The towel was torn into shreds from his sojourn in the woods. It did little to preserve his modesty. “I guess I can see why.” She made a sound that was possibly laughter, and began to cough.

Will was struck with the absurd urge to find her a glass of water. “I’d say it’s not his fault, but that’s not entirely true. He started it, and anyway, he usually enjoys it.”

“Mischa--what’s happened to you?”

“The men had killed our mother and father, and they’d chased us into the woods. It was cold, and we were miles from anyone, no one to help us, only the stars to guide us. Hannibal said it was kill or be killed. I was sick, and he was desperate.”

Will frowned with burgeoning understanding. “What did you do?” he demanded.

Mischa shook her head. “We had no idea it would happen. We were just so hungry, and I was weak from the cold. He fed them to me, and I got better, at first.”

There were stories, of course Will had heard them. Not just the Wendigo, but everywhere, in a dozen cultures, of regaining strength and stamina through the consumption of human flesh. Most couldn’t fathom the source of the myth, or the strands of truth mixed in with the fiction. Or the price of such an exchange. Will felt for her, he did.

“That man down there,” Will said.

“I know him,” Misha interrupted. “He’s not FBI.”

Will straightened. “You--how do you--”

Misha didn’t look much like Hannibal, beyond the hair and the fullness of their mouths, the jut of cheekbone, but when she gave him that piercing look, the resemblance was striking. “How do _you_ know?”

“He’s not here for you.”

The gun trembled in her hand and hesitantly she lowered it to rest in her lap. Downstairs, the front door closed, and Jack’s booming voice was barely discernible as Hannibal led him deeper into the house. 

“He said you smelled different.” Mischa rolled her eyes. Will could only imagine how often Hannibal must rely on his sense of smell to engender such a reaction. “I thought it was just because he wanted to fuck you. But it’s more.”

“I could help you,” Will said. “You wouldn’t have to keep doing this.”

Misha’s shoulders heaved with a racking cough. She shook her head, back of her hand pressed to her mouth. “That won’t stop Hannibal.”

No. Hannibal wasn’t like Mischa. He wasn’t doing it out of necessity. He was like _Will._ “He enjoys it,” Will bit out.

“Crawford might be here for you, but Hannibal won’t know that. He’ll think he’s here for us.”

Not to mention the trails of blood Will had left on their chase throughout the downstairs. That sort of detail was not going to slip Jack’s notice. Hannibal was bound to attacking him preemptively. “And if Hannibal attacks him, Jack won’t hesitate to kill him,” Will finished, nodding grimly.

As if on cue, there was a crash from downstairs. A great clattering of stainless steel on hardwood flooring, followed by a solid thumping noise. “Please, help him. He wouldn’t have hurt you if he didn’t have to.”

They both knew that to be a lie. Whatever Hannibal’s interest in him, Will doubted he’d have much compunction over causing Will any damage. So why was he compelled to help him? Why was he resistant to the idea of hurting Hannibal, even if it was to save himself?

Will was on the second floor landing. He didn’t even know how he’d gotten there, but his feet were still carrying him forward, toward the chaotic sounds rising from the kitchen. Despite the turmoil in his mind, some part of him had already reached a decision. Will had spent over two decades denying those instincts; maybe it was time to listen to them. Sometimes the only way to get rid of temptation was to yield to it.

Through the foyer, following the grunts and choked off cry, glass shattering and rapid blows of a closed fist against a body. When he came upon them, Jack and Hannibal were squaring off against one another from opposite sides of the island. A shattered stone peppermill perched precariously on the edge of the counter, spilling peppercorns across floor where the wooden cutting block lay discarded with a carving knife driven half through it.

The two of them were fairly well-matched in the fight. Hannibal was in arguably better shape, and he’d probably been the one to strike first, catching Jack off-guard. But he was fatigued from their chase, and unused to prey that fought back. Jack spent his life hunting the sort of creatures who fought for their lives, literally tooth and nail.

Their attention turned to Will as one, neither of them entirely taking their eyes from one another as their bodies angled toward him. Will could see the damage they’d done to one another. Strain in Hannibal’s back and a split lip, Jack favouring his right leg, blood pouring freely from a cut on the side of his head. The scent of it on the air was overpowering.

“Will,” Jack held out a hand at him, fingers splayed. 

“Jack.”

Will could practically see the gears grinding to a halt in Hannibal’s head at Jack’s recognition of him. The moment he began to reassess what was happening and how he could play it to his advantage.

“Will.” Jack’s voice was gently cajoling. Talking down a untamed animal. Completely at odds with the commanding tone he usually adopted. “I just wanted to talk. You haven’t done anything you can’t turn back from yet.”

“Let’s not pretend that you were coming after me for any other reason than to put a stake through my heart,” Will said.

Hannibal shifted, the very physical embodiment of curiosity, simmering with questions waiting to spill forth.

“You know…” Will paced closer to them. Jack stepped back, hand still outstretched, but Hannibal remained still, eyes burning into Will. “This whole time I was running, I thought it was because of what you were going to do to me.”

“I was trying to help you.” All his sugared words aside, Jack was implacable. Will knew what Jack’s intentions had been that day, as surely as he knew that one misstep here and Jack would put him down.

That was never going to happen.

“But it’s because I knew what I was going to do to _you_ the next time our paths crossed.” 

A violent spasm ripped through his gut and Will gritted his teeth. There was the tang of blood on his tongue and he delicately touched it to the tip of one tooth. Will sucked in a surprised breath at the sharp point that pricked the tender underside of his tongue. When he smiled, Jack’s hand twitched toward his waistband, but his gun was gone.

“You were right about me after all,” Will said. Energy coiled in his limbs, the centre of his gravity shifted lower. “I’m just like my father--nothing more than a monster, and there’s no sense denying it any longer.”

When the hunger struck Beau, he’d shed his human skin to hunt. At those times, he barely even recognised Will. It was only their shared blood that kept him from being attacked over the years. Worse than his own potential for violence was the knowledge of his father’s victims. For many years he couldn’t decide whether it was worse knowing who they were and what had become of them, or remaining ignorant. 

In the end, he’d been unable to avoid it. The morning after his father went out, he’d scour the papers and news channels for the names and details. It wasn’t difficult to figure out which crime scene was the result of his father’s hunting, inevitably attributed to animal attacks. No one ever looked any closer than that. 

That his father got away with it only made things worse. Will didn’t want his father caught, and he knew that he was only trying to survive, but none of that assuaged his conscience. He was complicit in each of those deaths. All the families who would never know what had truly happened to their loved ones and would never get justice.

After his father’s death, he thought he’d feel better, though he ached from the loss. Knowing his father was finally at peace and there would be no more violence. Only the hunger, always lurking at the back of his awareness, had grown stronger and stronger with each passing year. No full-blooded rougarou had ever lasted through puberty without giving in. Halfway through his twenties, Will hadn’t known how long the guilt would outweigh the need.

He just hadn’t known how good it would feel, to give in. Not the nauseating swoop in his stomach when he’d tasted that man’s blood sprayed across his face. The anticipation of taking pleasure in something so perverse that Will had chosen to suffer this terrible, clawing hunger rather than acknowledge it.

Beau had told him, but Will never believed it.

Jack was in motion a split second after Will leapt at him, and he was already too late. Beau had been full rougarou, but he was older. Tired. He’d never been the same after Carol left. Will was younger and faster, and all the aches of his chase with Hannibal melted away. Against him, Jack didn’t stand a chance.

Will felt a moment’s curiosity--would he transform, like his father? The way his body twisted and elongated, sprouting all over in hair. Claws to match his teeth, and those lupine eyes that had frightened Will so as a child, utterly foreign, how they watched him as though he were prey.

He came in low, caught Jack around the middle, and tackled him to the ground, following after. The first blow caught Jack across the chest. He managed to block it, but not before Will’s nails grazed him. Fabric and skin tore, leaving four livid lines of red. Jack drove his arm up and drove a punch into his gut. 

Will barely felt it. He brought his blood-tipped fingers to his lips and flicked his tongue out against them. He couldn’t help the groan, doubled over from the almost sexual satisfaction and relief at giving in. It was the gratification of all that shifting and grinding beneath the skin settling into place with like the popping of joints. 

When he sat upright, Will felt taller, stronger, more graceful. He could see the pores of Jack’s face, the delicate spidering lines in his wide eyes, hear the chaotic beat of all their hearts, keeping a wild rhythm.  
In Will’s case, it wasn’t the first taste that unlocked the monster within, but the second.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it Jack?” Will asked, pinning him back to the ground. “For me to just admit what I am?” He could feel the hot, sticky-wet seeping out from where his nails pierced the skin of Jack’s shoulders and tightened his grip, sinking them in a little deeper.

Jack grunted and surged upward. “You take me out and others will come for you,” he warned. The determination on his face was admirable. His jaw clenched with the effort as his hands scrambled for a grip on Will’s sweat-slick skin. The advantages of fighting nearly naked that Will had never considered. 

“Is that supposed to deter me?” Will laughed. It was a low, throaty sound Will had never heard before, more like a growl. “If you don’t kill me, they will?” He jerked Jack upwards and slammed him back to the ground again with a satisfying crack of skill and hardwood meeting. 

“Or maybe I’ll kill them.” Will leaned in and breathed deep the scent of fear rising from his prey. Jack’s face may have shown none of it, but his body betrayed him.

Jack threw another punch and Will caught his wrist easily, backed handed him across the face for good measure. The force of it left Jack stunned and Will was back in his old apartment, at that point of no return. There was still a voice in the back of Will’s head, now cautioning him from crossing that final line. Thing was, he’d gotten good at ignoring those voices over the years. This time he didn’t hesitate. 

Jack wrapped a hand around his throat but Will pressed into it. All of Jack’s impressive bulk meant nothing in this fight. Will sank his teeth into flesh at the curve of Jack’s shoulder, and it gave so easily. Like the most tender cut of meat just melting on his tongue as he bit deep and tore out a mouthful of skin and fat and muscle. And oh, the flavour, an explosion of it! Rich and nutty beneath the overpowering salty, ferrous tang of the blood.

After that first bite, it was a blur. All he really remembered was an impressionist blur of sensation--the taste and scent, Jack’s weakening grip, and the warmth that coursed through Will’s veins, growing hotter with every long swallow of flesh and blood. The sound of their hearts--his own pounding out a rapid beat against his chest as Jack’s grew weaker with every passing moment.

“Are you going to save any of that for me?”

It took Will several seconds for the question to even register, and longer still for him to realise he was being addressed, and by whom. He sat back on his haunches to find Mischa standing above him. The hem of her white gown was soaked in red leaching up into the fabric from the pool on the floor. She surveyed the scene before her with a twist of disdain in her mouth.

Will stumbled to his feet and had to grab ahold of the counter to steady himself. His head rushed with the movement. Beau had said he never remembered anything from when he transformed--that he had no control over his actions in that form. Maybe it was another result of his mixed heritage, one last shred of his humanity, but Will was able to rein in the monster and focus his attention on Mischa.

“Mischa.” Hannibal sounded strangled, and Will could smell him on the air. Arousal and the faintest whiff of concern. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Will offered his assistance with our predicament,” Mischa said. She toed Jack’s foot and wrinkled her nose. “I tend to prefer them a little less fresh from the kill.”

Without really intending to, Will took one staggering step towards her, nose first. She trembled, but remained still when his cheek brushed against her as he breathed deeply of her scent. Death and decay hung about her like a perfume. Her body was falling apart.

Behind them, Hannibal moved, and Will could feel his intent to separate them as a prickle up the back of his arms. Mischa quickly lifted her hand, forestalling him. 

“You could eat him,” Will said.

Mischa nodded. “I never developed Hannibal’s taste for it. Or yours, apparently. But it didn’t seem to matter, anyway. Whether I went without for months on end, or ate it as frequently as he did, come winter I’d fall ill.”

“Human flesh will only restore you for a time.”

“But you…” Mischa reached out to touch his forehead where he’d cut it on a branch in the woods. Beneath her fingers, the skin was whole once again. It seemed his normal advanced healing had been further accelerated.

“I would sustain you much longer.”

Mischa’s heart skipped and began to race. Will could hear it as clearly as if it were his own, saw her pulse jumping in her throat. “You could just kill us both. Jack Crawford didn’t leave a mark on you. I’m starting to think my gun wouldn’t have done much damage, either.”

Will stepped back from her, turning to see Hannibal watching them warily from close behind. He’d found another knife, a wickedly sharp thing with a curved blade to hook and snare. “Why would I do that?” he marvelled. “When I’ve found someone else just like me.” 

Hannibal’s eyes searched over him, tongue pressed to his teeth, but he didn’t back down. Will smiled as sharp as the liquid silver of the blade Hannibal held. When he moved closer, Hannibal tensed and brought the knife up between them, striking a defensive pose. Will struck out, quicker than he’d known he could, quicker than Hannibal could react, and grabbed him around the wrist. 

The muscles bunched in his hold. Hannibal’s face was closed-off, but he didn’t resist the pull of Will’s hand on him. Will brought the knife tip to his upper stomach, indenting the flesh, not quite enough pressure to draw blood. “You’ll take something non-essential?”

Hannibal lifted his chin, lips pursed, and pushed a little harder. Will grunted out a sound of warning, and tightened his hold. He could feel the bones of Hannibal’s wrist, and how easy they’d be for him to break. Hannibal had to realise it, too. “You trust me not to kill you?”

“And why would you do that?” Will asked, and stepped closer, to feel the blade sink into him. It felt nothing like the agony of the first time he’d been stabbed, more of an irritant than pain. He brought up his other hand to cup the back of Hannibal’s neck, breathing over his mouth unsteadily. Their eyes met, and Will was pulled in by the black of his pupils, swallowing up all the light in the room. Will was incapable of looking away, already past the event horizon. “When you’ve finally found someone just like _you_?”

Blood spilled freely over their joined hands, and Hannibal, finally, took over. Stepped into Will, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, the press of his erection against Will’s hip. His own free hand braced against Will’s back, fingers splayed wide, so big it spanned from the curve at the small of his back halfway up his spine. 

Hannibal broke Will’s gaze to glance past his shoulder at Mischa. A dismissive jerk of his head, followed by the complex, silent exchange of siblings communicating through facial expression alone. Mischa huffed in annoyance, but Will heard her retreating footsteps, and then they were alone together. 

“You won’t miss a bit of your liver.” Hannibal jerked in Will’s hold and cut deeper with a clear goal in mind; Will hissed and clutched at him, hand slipping from wrist up his forearm to dig into his bicep. Hannibal didn’t even bat a lash at the claws piercing his flesh. He arched a brow and ducked his head to graze his nose along the line of Will’s collarbone. “Might even grow back on you, the way you heal.”

Will’s breath shuddered loose of his chest. This was a more immediate pain. He could feel his pulse in the place where Hannibal cut him. The blood poured down his stomach, caught by the fabric of the towel, when Hannibal pulled the blade free. 

“You should probably lie down for this.”

They moved together to lift Will onto the kitchen table. Dressed in a fittingly red tablecloth, maybe his blood wouldn’t even show. Will wasn’t even remotely surprised when Hannibal came up with a pair of latex gloves from a drawer on the buffet, given what he’d surmised so far of his proclivities. Will had never suffered so much as a cold in his life; he hardly expected to succumb to infection now, but as Hannibal traced one gloved finger along the wound, he found he didn’t mind the sensation.

“How incredible,” Hannibal murmured. “It’s closing already.”

“Then you better hurry,” Will grunted. 

Hannibal glanced up to Will’s face, and Will wondered what he saw. How much of his own face remained in this state, and how much of him was beast. “Could I have even hurt you?” he wondered.

Will bit down on his lip when Hannibal parted the skin with his fingers. He’d forgotten his teeth, which tore his skin to shreds, neatly piercing through to the inside of his mouth. Yet there was something undeniably, irresistibly erotic about the feel of Hannibal’s fingers dipping into his body. Will made himself focus on that rather than the knife sliding between internal organs.

“I guess we could find out,” he heard himself saying, between panting breaths, and shocked himself into laughter.

Hannibal froze perfectly still, fist deep inside him. “It would have been a terrible shame, is all.”

Will was perversely hard. “Hurry,” he said.

“Yes,” Hannibal exhaled, and he did. Quick work of separating a small portion of one lobe and lifting it free. Will watched the piece of him, a deep purple red that Hannibal sat aside on a bit of wax paper. He turned back to Will, bending to examine the wound, and Will caught him by the jaw, forced his head back and to the side. Hannibal gave no resistance. He rested his hand over Will’s wound, and Will sat up, held together by the touch. 

Hannibal’s pulse was a slow, steady beat. Will licked over it, tasting salt and the woods they’d raced through together. He was careful as he closed his teeth to skin, barely breaking the surface. Just a taste, heady and intoxicating. It spread through his veins, and went to work knitting his skin back together. 

There was a tugging in his chest, and undertow threatening to drag down the last threads of consciousness and release the monster entirely. Will pulled away with great effort, but he knew he needn’t fear harming Hannibal beyond repair. As his father had with Will, Will saw beneath Hannibal’s skin to the kindred spirit within.

He reached between them to trace the outline of Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal groaned, a low, animal sound that went straight to Will’s own cock, tenting the fabric of the towel obscenely. Hannibal’s hand closed around his thigh, brandingly hot. He arched his throat under Will’s tongue, tracing the shape left by his teeth--two neat little rows of pin-prick marks, above the purpling bruises he’d left earlier. His hips bucked at the sight.

“I should tend to the meat.”

“In a minute,” Will breathed. He traced a path upward, just under Hannibal’s jaw to his ear, caught delicately between his teeth so as not to break skin. It was a shivering-light touch and Hannibal’s hand tightened, thumb dug into sensitive flesh, so close to where Will desired it. “This won’t take long.”

“That’s disappointing to hear,” Hannibal said, words painted with amusement.

Will grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked him down, face to face. Their first kiss more of a crush of lips and teeth, the give of Hannibal’s flesh under Will’s teeth, slicking their tongues in blood and spit. And Hannibal hauled him closer, Will spreading his legs for Hannibal to slot between them and bring them together. He licked into Will’s mouth, kissed with a fervor that Will couldn’t keep up with. It stole his breath away and made him glad he was sitting for the way his body trembled.

When they parted, Hannibal tracing sloppy, sucking kisses down his jaw and throat. Will leaned back on his arms and let Hannibal have his way for a moment, distantly aware of the fact that Hannibal was seeking out all the places Will had been cut earlier. The skin was unblemished, though the dried blood remained, and Hannibal happily licked it away with a growl that called out to the thing inside Will. He growled back, grabbed Hannibal by the collar, and hauled him up.

“Don’t worry,” Will told him. He reached down to open Hannibal’s trousers and shove them down over his hips before starting to work on the knot of his towel. “You’ll have all the time in the world later to take me apart to your heart’s content.”

Hannibal put up no fight when Will stood up from the table and manhandled him around to bend over it, following to press his dick against the curve of Hannibal’s ass. He merely braced his hands on the table top and canted his hips at the perfect angle, head hung. 

Will framed Hannibal’s hips in his hands. It was a nice view; Hannibal was just as well-muscled as Will had imagined, from how he’d moved. Strong, powerful thighs and the generous swell of his ass, Will’s thumbs digging into the dimples at the small of his back. He ran his fingers down the cleft of Hannibal’s ass to brush against his hole, and the muscles in Hannibal’s ass twitched. “Right now, it’s my turn to get inside you.”

“There’s coconut oil in the cabinet beside the microwave.” Which, Will figured, was pretty fucking explicit consent. He found the jar and hastily scooped out a handful. It melted quickly between his palm and dick when he stroked himself, until he was glistening and slippery with it. 

When he tucked two fingers under the curve of Hannibal’s ass and circled his hole, Hannibal opened easily for the press inside. Will felt everything more keenly this form and the restraint he’d shown earlier abandoned him now. At the tight grip of Hannibal’s body, pulling his fingers deeper, and the clench of his muscles. Will’s cock throbbed at the promise. Impatient, he fucked his fingers in and out a couple times, stretched them open and searched for the rigid, raised flesh to make Hannibal moan and his arms shake as though they might give out.

What Will wanted was more than bare skin on skin. He wanted days on end spent exploring this connection between them, to see how deeply they could reach inside one another. He wanted to look into Hannibal’s eyes while he fucked him--how much more of himself might he see reflected there?

The beast cared nothing for such intimacy. It wanted nothing more than to show its dominance. A primal, animal urge to strip away the the human complexity and lay claim to Hannibal. Just the hard line of Hannibal’s back plastered sweaty against his chest. The play of muscles beneath his palm as he held Hannibal to him, and fucked inside, crisp hair between his fingers as he trailed his hand downward towards its goal. 

Hannibal’s shirt tore like paper up the back for Will’s claws. The halves fell open and Will lay himself over it as he lined up his cock. His teeth ached to set against the straining tendon of Hannibal’s neck. Will pressed his face there as he began to push inside, sucked hard enough he imagined he could taste the blood through the skin. Resistance gave way and Hannibal arched his back, letting Will’s cock slide deep. 

Will gave a reflexive snap of his hips, driving that extra inch deeper to rest flush against Hannibal’s ass. He fit him like a glove, tight and impossibly hot, burning up through Will’s stomach in the place Hannibal had cut him. He wrapped an arm around Hannibal’s waist and held on as he drew back and thrust in again. Hannibal’s groan rumbled through him. Will sucked harder in response; the skin was a mottled purple when he drew back to appreciate his work, spotted through with raspberry pinprinks.

“Are you afraid you’ll hurt me?” Hannibal panted.

The rational part of Will was aware he was being teased, but the monster didn’t care if it was rising to the bait. He pulled Hannibal close, hips pistoning on pure instinct, and gave into the siren call of Hannibal’s blood just beneath the surface. And fuck, it was even better like this, biting into Hannibal while he was fucking him. Will could _taste_ his arousal and the desperation to match his own. Burning down his throat to catch on the fire in his belly and send flames licking all through him.

Hannibal moaned with abandon at every thrust. These guttural, needful sounds that stoked the fire higher. He worked his hips backward to grind down on Will’s cock. Maybe his estimation of how long it would last was generous, because Will couldn’t stop, couldn’t even slow down. He wrapped a hand around Hannibal’s cock; there wasn’t enough oil to slick the way, but the friction just made Hannibal writhe.

“Will,” Hannibal rasped, reaching back to thread his fingers through Will’s hair.

In answer, Will swiped his thumb over the leaking head of Hannibal’s cock, eased back the foreskin to tease the slit and smear the precum down over his frenulum. As much as the rest of him, Will longed to taste that part of Hannibal as well. He squeezed and twisted his wrist, and Hannibal came apart for him, moaning like a slain animal as his orgasm washed over him.

Will groaned around his mouthful of skin when Hannibal’s inner muscles clamped down, almost too tight for Will to really move. All he could do was hold on and rock into Hannibal’s welcoming heat a few more times. His eyes clenched shut as he too began to cum, sweeping through him with incredible force.

As he lay over Hannibal’s back, catching his breath, Will’s bones began to shift again. There was none of the pain from before, more like the sensation of stretching after a satisfying workout. He finally surfaced from the fog that had hung over him since he’d first heard the door open to the carriage house. He blinked open his eyes to see the mark at the back of Hannibal’s neck, his stomach turned sharply with lust and disbelief that he’d made it.

It all came rushing back to him, and he jerked upright, stumbled back and caught himself on the counter, hand coming up to cup a hand over his stomach. The place where Hannibal had cut him was nothing more than a vivid red line, like a few week old scar. 

Hannibal leaned on the edge of the table, covered in cum and blood. He glanced at Will from beneath the fall of his hair, and from whatever he saw made him stand and come to gently trace his fingers over Will’s face. “I have always seen the beauty in death, only I’ve never thought of it quite so literally before.”

Foolish to blush now, after what he’d just done, but Will felt like an entirely different creature from the one he’d been mere moments before. “I’ve only ever seen the ugliness. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve tried to tell myself.”

“And now?” Hannibal edged a step closer, all that solid heat pressed against Will’s side in a way that spoke of safety and refuge after a lifetime of living on the run from the truth. Hannibal would embrace every horrible, twisted fantasy that Will’s mind had ever played host to. He would likely relish seeing them brought to life.

Will turned his head to the side, where he could see Jack’s shoes peeking out from the corner of the island. He waited for the horror to sweep through him. The turn in his stomach he’d felt every time he’d read what had become of one of Beau’s victims. Revulsion not for what Beau had done, but for how it affected Will. How untroubled he was by the idea of doing the same.

“I’ve spent my whole life training myself to feel guilty over these urges. I convinced myself that if I ever gave in, it would swallow me whole.” Looking down on Jack, Will felt no more remorse for his death than the animals who graced his plate. “My mother, Jack, the hunters like him--even my father--they had me all convinced I was the animal.”

“‘Men revile the things which they do not understand; and the things which they know by instinct, like unreasoning animals, by these things they are destroyed.’”  
Will scoffed, but it turned into a strange laughter. “Are you calling me an angel?”

“I have no idea what sort of creature you are,” Hannibal said, “but a glorious one indeed. I wonder, just what will consuming your flesh do to Mischa, if consuming human flesh has sustained her this far? What sort of restorative properties does your blood possess?”

“There are stories--myths, really, of immortality. Of course, none of us know how much truth there is in them. The Rougarou always end up dead at some hunter’s hand. Where Jack has gone, others will follow.”

“Hmm…” Hannibal skimmed his fingers along Will’s jaw and through the curls at the nape of his neck, and gave a gentle tug. “If anyone will be carving into you, it will be me.”

Will shivered and turned back to Hannibal, meeting the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze head on. He opened his mouth, a flirtatious response about how Hannibal had already accomplished that on the tip of his tongue, when they were interrupted by Mischa clearing her throat from the next room.

“Are you guys finished? Because I could just go on dying in here, if you need a few more minutes.”

“You should take care of your sister, Hannibal,” Will said, straightening and pulling away from his embrace. “I’ll take care of Jack.” Will took Hannibal’s hand in his and flashed him an insouciant smirk. “And when you’re all done, you can spend the rest of the night opening me up.”


End file.
